Divergence
by prone2dementia
Summary: After accidentally deaging Voldemort during the Final Battle, Harry shocks the wizarding world by deciding to raise five-year-old Tom Riddle. A threeshot following them into the hours, days, and years after the war. DH non-compliant, no pairings.
1. Hours

Warnings: rot-your-teeth-out-sweet, unrealistically intelligent Tom, unrealistically noble Harry.

* * *

Divergence

_Part I:_ _Hours_

One would think that, after the disastrous Sectumsempra incident, Harry James Potter would have learned not to toss around random spells he had glimpsed in books. That, apparently, was not the case.

He was dueling with Voldemort and he knew he was steadily losing. The Dark Lord seemed to know all of the spells in Harry's repertoire, and the Boy-Who-Lived was reduced to dancing around the colorful streams of light that gushed from Voldemort's wand.

During a brief reprieve from the onslaught, he sought to cast a spell highlighted in an old tome at Grimmauld Place.

With desperation, he cried, "_Sanus medica!_"

And a hypnotic, golden beam sailed from his wand. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Voldemort stood rooted to the spot as his adversary's spell flew closer and closer until—

White. Light.

Harry, along with the other witches and wizards participating in the Final Battle, threw himself onto the floor of the Great Hall. _Damn it!_ he thought. _Everyone was going to die from this, and it would be _all his_ fault._

But no one did.

There was a grand moment of stillness, before the Chosen One looked up slowly to survey the damage he had caused.

There was no damage.

Shock graced Harry's face as he picked himself up from his crouched position. In Voldemort's stead stood an adorable little boy who could not have been older than six. He was dressed in an outdated fashion and appeared to be slightly disoriented. The boy glanced about curiously at the men and women and teenagers who were beginning to stir.

Harry cleared his voice.

"Tom...? Riddle?" he inquired hoarsely.

The boy's eyebrows furrowed as he craned his neck to meet Harry's emerald eyes. "...Yes? Can I help you?"

"How—how old are you?" the young wizard croaked.

"Five," the Heir of Slytherin replied as he held up five fingers.

Harry began a hesitant approach. "Can you tell me what year this is?"

"1931." It was clear that he found Harry's line of questioning to be odd.

The emerald-eyed wizard paused before asking, "Do you know where you are?"

Tom shook his head. "No. Should I?"

The teenager's reply was cut off by a familiar voice.

"Harry, what are you doing? Can't you see that's Voldemort? Did you forget who Tom Riddle _was_? _Kill him!_"

The occupants of the Great Hall turned in unison to see the red-haired girl who had professed such harsh demands. Her cheeks were tinged pink with outrage and her nostrils flared as she huffed.

"No, Ginny. He's just a little boy. He isn't the Dark Lord."

"Yet!" Ginny exclaimed. "He isn't the Dark Lord _yet_. And what if this is all a trick? What if he's just trying to lure you into a false sense of security?"

"If he wanted to kill me, he could have done so while I was on the floor," Harry asserted firmly.

Everyone was now either staring at Harry, Ginny, or Tom. Tom won the 'popularity contest' though, for most of the people were gawking blatantly at the perplexed looking boy in the center of the argument.

The silence began to fracture as whispers broke out.

"—Is that truly You-Know-Who?"

"—He looks so..._human!_ And young!"

"—He's really...cute."

The Gryffindor paid no mind to the musings. Instead, he waved his wand to manifest a translucent, blue shield that enveloped the former Dark Lord. He hoped it would be sufficient to protect the young boy from those who wished to take advantage of his defenselessness.

Harry then rounded on his audience, poised to say something before a _bang!_ halted his words. He turned to the source of the noise. Grim-faced ministry wizards rushed in through the double doors of the Great Hall, brandishing their wands.

The Savior of the Wizarding World chuckled dryly, "Well, if it isn't the Aurors. Late as usual."

"What—what is going on?" asked the apparent leader of the group.

"Oh, we were just having the most _pleasant_ tea party," Harry averred, his tone saturated with sarcasm.

The older man sputtered incoherently for several moments before Harry raised his hand in the universal signal for '_Stop_'.

Harry gestured at the congregation of Death Eaters. "You might want to take care of them, you know," he suggested.

The other man flushed and intimated at the Aurors. An instant later, they were fanning out amongst the weary combatants.

Harry brought his attention back to the child before him. The fright displayed by Tom struck a chord with the Boy-Who-Lived, and it motivated him to do what he did next:

"I take it that you're confused?"

Tom gave a nod.

"Well, my name is Harry Potter. You can call me Harry, though. Why don't you come with me, and I'll explain things to you."

The former Dark Lord bit his lip uncertainly; the action was not lost on the older wizard.

Harry smiled with reassurance, "I won't hurt you. Promise."

"Ok," Tom said in a small, shy voice.

He reached out to take Harry's offered hand, and the two walked out of the castle together.

* * *

The initial hours following the Final Battle were rather hectic for most of the wizarding world. However, the atmosphere within 12 Grimmauld Place remained as stately and calm as ever. The sole inhabitants inside the House of Black resided in its drawing room.

"I'll have to apologize about the condition of this house," the older one confessed. "I only recently inherited this house from my deceased godfather."

"That's all right," said the younger one as he beheld the room with wide eyes.

"Now, you undoubtedly have some questions for me, Tom—"

"—Is it magic?" Tom blurted.

Harry gaped.

"Er... Did I...say something wrong?" the dark-eyed child asked fearfully.

The Chosen One swiftly caught himself. "No, no. I was just surprised at how quickly you caught on!"

"So it's true then? Magic is real?" Tom's countenance shown with triumph.

"Yes, Tom."

"I knew it! The other kids always said I was wrong. They teased me about it and..." his voice trailed off as he glanced to the side.

Harry dropped from sitting on the couch to kneeling before Tom.

"People are scared of what they do not know. They're sometimes mean about it, but you can be above them if you don't let it affect you."

Tom bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

"There are a few things you need to know. For one, the year is actually 1998. You grew up, you see. Back in that hall, I sent a spell at you and accidentally made you like this."

"You won't be turning me back, will you?" the five-year-old queried apprehensively. "I don't want that, and I don't think a lot of people would want that either."

Harry frowned, "What makes you think that?"

"The girl from earlier—you were arguing with her about, um," Tom floundered before continuing, "and then the way some of those people looked at me in the hall. They looked _scared_."

"I'll be honest with you," Harry admitted with a sigh. "You didn't grow up to be a very nice person."

Tom chuckled nervously.

"But you and the grown-up version of you aren't the same. I said previously that I won't hurt you, and that's the truth. I won't hurt you, and I won't allow anyone else to do so either."

"That's awfully nice of you. I—I can be nice too..." the younger boy then asked bluntly, "are you going to be taking me to an orphanage?"

"Do you want to be taken to an orphanage?"

"No!"

Harry smiled as an idea occurred to him. "That's good, because I would like you to stay with me. I can be like your older brother if you want."

"I would like that," Tom consented with an answering grin.

Their sentimental moment was broken when the fireplace flared to life.

"Harry? _Harry_?" called a female voice.

The aforementioned wizard stood and walked towards the cackling flames. He heard a soft exclamation of "_Whoa_" from Tom.

"I'm here, Hermione."

"Oh, so you are at Grimmauld. I had thought as much," the bushy-haired girl said briskly.

Harry looked apologetic. "Sorry about abandoning you guys. I just...had to get away, you know?"

Hermione's tone softened. "I understand Harry. You will be at the funerals, though, won't you?"

"Of course! ...Er, when are they?" Harry inquired sheepishly.

"Next Friday for the Weasleys' and the Lupins' at the Burrow. I'd imagine that you would be invited to the Creeveys' funeral as well, but I'm not sure when that is. There's also a memorial service being held next Saturday."

"Ok, got that."

"Harry? Who is that behind you?"

"Oh," the teen reached around to bring Tom into the foreground. "Tom, this is my friend Hermione. And, Hermione, this is Tom."

Harry cringed as he awaited judgment, but judgment never came. Instead, his bookish friend said:

"I trust that you know what you're doing. And I also want to tell you that I'm researching the spell you used during the duel."

He responded gratefully, "Thanks 'Mione."

"No problem. I have to go now, Harry. We'll be in touch."

"Bye."

The fireplace extinguished as if doused by a bucket of water.

Tom asked inquisitively, "That was amazing! How did you do that?"

Harry smiled and began to explain...

* * *

The Chosen One was awoken on Sunday morning by the insistent knocking at his front door and the shrieking of Walburga Black's portrait. He stumbled out of bed, went to check on Tom, and then padded down the stairs. Throwing open his front door, he found himself face to face with _Percy Weasley_, of all people.

"Er, hey Percy. Do you want to...come in?"

"That would be appreciated. But I'm afraid that this isn't a social call," said Percy as he followed Harry into the house.

"Sorry about the portrait. She's a bit volatile," Harry muttered while waving a silencing spell in the direction of the Black matriarch.

He led the ginger-haired man into his kitchen.

"So what is it that you need?" asked the younger wizard when they sat down.

"Well, you see," Percy emitted cautiously, "the Ministry's been made aware that one Tom Marvolo Riddle is under your custody. There have been a lot of rumors floating around about him, and the Ministry would like you to bring him in tomorrow for questioning."

"Like, a trial?"

"That's...one name for it," Percy divulged timidly, fearing Harry's reaction.

"Will Veritaserum be employed?"

"...Most likely."

Harry sighed, "We'll be there, but only because I can't see a way out of this. I doubt that the interrogation's going to reveal much, though, because Tom really _is_ just a five-year-old boy."

The older wizard sighed as well, but his was a sigh of relief, "Thank you for your cooperation Harry. I can show myself out."

For a long moment, Harry sat staring at the grains of wood described on his table. Deciding that a heavy heart would not help matters, he shook himself out of his daze and looked up.

A pair of dark eyes peered at him from the threshold of his kitchen.

"Tom," he said in mild surprise. "I thought you were still asleep."

"I was, but then I heard screaming."

"How long have you been here?"

Tom shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I, um, overheard your conversation with that man."

"Then, you know what will happen tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Are you nervous?"

"A little," Tom glanced down at his hands, "but I won't disappoint you, Harry."

Harry beamed at those words. "I don't doubt you. Now, why don't we have some breakfast?"


	2. Days

_Part II:_ _Days_

"Are you sure it was the right thing to do, Kingsley? Allowing Potter to take the boy away? What if it was all a ruse by Voldemort? What if Potter's dead or being controlled by the Dark Lord?" The mousy haired man asked his dark-skinned companion.

"Rest assured, Edwin, Harry's still alive and kicking. Percy Weasley confirmed that."

"It's just odd—how he is so willing to take in his former enemy," Edwin said with a shake of his head. "I wonder what his motivations are."

Kingsley Shacklebolt sighed. "Harry's a good kid—a bit rash, but he can take care of himself. He never gets the trust and respect he deserves."

The shorter male acquiesced, "I'll trust your judgment, then."

* * *

"The Ministry is in complete and utter upheaval," Percy explained as he led Harry and Tom into a darkened atrium. "The only thing they can agree on is that he—" the ginger haired wizard nodded towards Tom "—needs to be questioned."

Harry frowned. "Who's going to be doing the interrogation? I mean, the Ministry's been commanded by Voldemort all this time..."

"Ahh, I think you'll be pleased to know that Kingsley, who's acting as Minister at the moment, is taking time off from his busy schedule to help conduct this interview. Edwin Bones and Gawain Robards will also be assisting."

"Bones? Any relation to Amelia Bones?"

"Yes, actually. He's her brother, and a member of Wizengamot. And, in case you didn't know, Gawain Robards is head of the Auror office at this moment."

Harry was about to speak when he felt Tom tug on his hand.

Pivoting to face the boy, he asked, "Yes?"

"What are they doing there?" Tom inquired with wide eyes.

He was indicating at what seemed to be a great lump of black stone surrounded by a small group of people. As they passed, one of the wizards turned to regard them with awe and fear. He nudged the witch and wizard on either sides of him, pointing at the trio.

Harry was used to silent gawking, and was glad they did not attempt more than that. Tom, however, shrank away from the attention.

"Do you remember the Magic is Might statue? We're trying to take it down right now, but it's proving to be more difficult than we first thought," said Percy. "There seems to be a version of the Permanent Sticking Charm on it. We can only hope to reshape it into something more pleasant, instead of removing it."

Harry nodded and they proceeded, gaining more and more notice along the way.

"This way." Percy gestured at a door that opened into a moderately sized stairwell. "Level Ten isn't accessible through the lifts, and that's where we'll be heading."

The trip downwards took longer than Harry would have liked, but he could hardly rush Tom, whose short legs made it difficult for him to keep pace with the adults. When Harry offered to carry him, the boy had replied with a firm "_No_".

_'It's his independence shining through_,' thought Harry.

Percy expressed little in the way of impatience. In fact, the ministry wizard expressed little at all, opting to remain silent for most of the journey. It was not because he had nothing to say—it was because he was unsure of how to act in the presence of Harry Potter, _the Savior of the Wizarding World,_ and Tom Riddle, who happened to be the _former Dark Lord_.

_'Perhaps this is what being "star-struck" felt like_,' mused Percy.

Tom's mind was whirring with disjointed bits of nerves, curiosity, and wonder. He followed the two adults with the complete trust that could only be displayed by children still in their years of innocence. He did not have many opinions on the ginger-haired wizard, except that he seemed to be lacking a personality. However, he did have a _lot _of views about the other man. Harry Potter seemed like the type who would assist elderly women in crossing streets, the type who would sit under the stars just to appreciate life and beauty and simplicity, the type who would help rescue wayward kittens from trees. The type whose heart was big enough to allow little orphans in.

_'Life is too good to be true. If this is all a dream, I'll do anything to never wake up_,' Tom vowed.

After descending the stairs, they made their way through a carpeted hallway and into an empty room. A wooden table dominated the scene. Three chairs on one side faced a single chair on the other. The wall on the left was made of foggy glass and the wall directly opposite them was featureless except for a door in the lower left corner.

Percy motioned for Tom to take a seat in the single chair while saying, "Sorry, Harry, but you'll have to wait outside. We cannot have you interfering in this. There is a viewing chamber so you can watch the proceedings through that foggy glass you see. It's clear on the other side."

Harry acknowledged the words and then turned to Tom, who was biting on his lower lip. "How are you feeling? Will you be all right in here?"

"I'm fine and I think so, yeah," he responded.

"You know that I will only be a room away?"

"Yes."

"Ok," the Boy-Who-Lived looked back at Percy. "Mind explaining the procedures with me still in here?"

"Of course not," Percy assured. "Ok, Tom. Here's what's going to happen. Three men will be coming into the room. They're going to give you something to drink, and the drink will help you tell the truth—"

"—Help me or force me?" Tom cut off with a frown.

For a moment, the ministry wizard was so taken aback that he was unable to respond. He gave an awkward cough.

Harry, who was thoroughly enjoying the situation, fought a smug smile. Tom was always such an _insightful _boy.

"Erm..." Percy said finally, "It will keep you from lying."

"So it's going to force me."

"...Yes."

The red-haired man was reminded of a similarly uncomfortable situation that had taken place only a day previous.

"_Like, a trial?" _Harry Potter had asked, his eyes boring into him in much the same way that Tom Riddle's were doing so right now.

An uneasy pause later, he had replied with,_ "That's...one name for it."_

The fact that he was the only person to display unease in _both_ situations was not lost on him.

"_Will Veritaserum be employed?"_

"_...Most likely."_

And he had cringed in much the same way as he was cringing now, fearing the young boy's reactions.

"Guess I'd better just get it over with then."

When Tom's words registered with Percy, his jaw nearly dropped in shock. But he was not shocked by how genial the boy's reception was. No, he was shocked by the realization of just how alike Tom Riddle and Harry Potter were. They possessed similar appearances...

...similar backgrounds...

...similar mannerisms.

It was eerie.

A hand on his shoulder saved him from the trouble of responding. He turned to see Harry Potter eyeing him with what seemed to be an amused smirk. It was almost as if the emerald-eyed wizard could read his thoughts, and found them to be entertaining.

"So they feed him truth serum—what happens next?"

"Oh, right. Then they ask questions...and that's all."

Tom nodded slowly. "Ok."

"Shall we be leaving now?" Harry suggested.

"Yes," Percy replied.

The Chosen One patted his young ward's shoulders. "This will all be over before you know it."

* * *

It was an odd experience, Tom decided as the cool, flavorless liquid slid down his throat. Like having every little part of his mind that was essentially _Tom_, the feelings, emotions, and opinions, shoved back into a nondescript corner. All that was left were floating bits of facts and information, readily given away at a moment's notice.

"What is your full name?"

The man who asked the question had dark, close-cropped hair and heavy eyebrows. He wore an intimidating scowl like a second skin, and Tom instantly disliked him. Instead of meeting the man's eyes, he chose to stare raptly at the quill standing upright on a piece of parchment resting atop the table across from him.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle."

As he said those words, the quill came alive, dancing animatedly across the paper.

"When is your birthday?"

"December 31st, 1926."

"Where do you live?"

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The signals and urges in his brain were a mess. Some told him to reply with 12 Grimmauld Place; others informed him that his address was the orphanage in London.

When he opened his mouth, he found himself unable to respond with either, "...Erm...er—"

The tall, dark man who had introduced himself as Kingsley Shacklebolt seemed to sense his distress. "The question might be a bit too ambiguous, Gawain. Tom, where did you live a week ago?"

The boy breathed a sigh of relief, "St. Mary's Orphanage, London."

"I can take over again, Minister," The other man said with his perpetual scowl, "How much do you understand of what is going on right now?"

"I'm being questioned."

The scowl deepened, and his bushy eyebrows knit together. "...Well, yes, you _are_. I meant, er—"

"—We're still being too vague. Tom, can you tell us what happened on Saturday?"

The youth frowned. Well, of _course_ he could tell them what happened. But so _much_ had happened!

"Er, I got up from bed. Took off my pajamas. Put on clothes. Went to the loo. Brushed my teeth. Washed my face. Walked down the stairs—"

He was cut off brusquely by the meaner man, "Yes, yes, that's quite enough."

"Now, no need to be so harsh with the boy, Gawain," The third wizard in the room spoke for the first time.

"I don't see how this is 'harsh', Edwin."

"You don't—"

"All right, gentlemen. Let's not lose sight of why we're here," The tallest of the three interrupted smoothly.

"Of course, Minister." The man named Gawain looked slightly chagrined.

The other one said, "Not a problem."

"Now, Tom, does the name 'Voldemort' mean anything to you?" Kingsley Shacklebolt asked.

Tom could not keep the stutter out of his voice. "I've...h-heard it a few times."

"Do you know who Voldemort is?"

"Erm...well...I _think _it might be, er, me?" the orphan offered hesitantly, guilt and uncertainty invading the little corner of his mind that was occupied by _Tom_.

"Did you hear that Minister?" the scowling man crowed with triumph. "The boy's admitting that he's Voldemort!"

"That's hardly an admission of guilt, Gawain. _Do _attempt to see this from an _unbiased _stand point."

"But the boy—"

"Mr. Robards! This is a _questioning_. There will be time for speculation _later_."

"_Yes_, Minister."

"Good. Let's continue," pronounced Kingsley, before asking the mousy-haired individual, "Why don't you ask some questions, Edwin?"

"It would be a pleasure. Tom, do you remember anything from beyond the year 1931?"

"Well, er, I remember the past two days, and they're beyond 1931... Harry said so."

"All right. Next question: What do you know of magic?"

"Mm, it makes..._things _happen," Tom winced at the vagueness of his answer. "Like, things that aren't normal."

"Have you ever used magic?"

"...Erm. I might have." The dark-eyed boy felt compelled to justify his actions, "But I never _mean_ to. It just happens!"

"Yes, we believe you," Edwin assured, "Have you ever hurt anyone with your magic?"

"Well...I made Eric Whalley's hair turn green once."

"..." The older male seemed to struggle with his words, "Ahh...have you...used any magic to _physically_ hurt anyone?"

"...No."

Edwin smiled before inquiring, "What do you know about Harry Potter?"

"He's nice. He has black hair. Green eyes. A lightning scar—"

"You can stop there, Tom. Do you wish to hurt him or anyone else, for that matter?"

_'Why were they asking him that?'_ Tom wondered distantly. "No."

"Are you willing to follow rules and laws?"

"If they make _sense_, yes."

"Well...I think that's all, Minister. Is there anything you would like to add?"

The former Auror beamed down at the little boy, "Nothing else, Edwin. I think that about covers it."

* * *

"He's free to go," said Kingsley, guiding a relieved looking Tom into the viewing chamber.

"Thank you, Minister."

"Now, call me Kingsley. You deserve it."

Harry grinned and patted Tom's shoulder absently. "Thank you, Kingsley."

"Not a problem. I must ask, though, do you plan to raise Mr. Riddle?"

Tom peered up at Harry, eyes sparkling with hope. The Boy-Who-Lived knew that if he were to disagree now, the young boy would be crushed. A rejection might even spur him onto the path towards darkness.

"That is my intention."

Harry could not help but smile when he caught sight of Slytherin's sole heir beaming happily.

"I had suspected as much." Kingsley waved his wand and conjured up a folder. "These are legal papers that you need to fill out. Tom is a special case so you might not be able to answer all of the questions. When you're done, turn it into the adoption office, and the courts will issue you an adoption decree. A family officer will also contact you later and arrange a few home visits to see how you are getting along. Mr. Riddle will also receive a proper wizarding birth certificate then."

Harry nodded.

The former Auror continued, "Normally, the process would be much more complicated. That's why I suggest you take advantage of the disorder in the Ministry and your status to get through this quickly."

"My status?"

"Yes. The Chosen One. The Boy-Who-Lived. Vanquisher of the Dark."

"Oh great, they're calling me Vanquisher on top of everything else now?"

Tom found his guardian's distress to be amusing.

"Indeed they are. That reminds me—I've just been warned by security that the press has gotten word of your presence—"

The boy savior let out a groan, posture slumping dejectedly.

"—I know, I know. You hate the limelight," the Minister sympathized. "I ordered an Auror escort for you, and they'll be meeting you two out in the atrium."

"Thanks," said the Gryffindor, trying and failing to sound earnest.

The dark-skinned man chuckled. "Anything for the hero."

Harry just shook his head, dismissing the title. "C'mon Tom. Time to face the big bad men with cameras."

He looked down in time to see an apprehensive frown pass over Tom's face.

"Oh, Tom. I didn't really mean that. It was an exaggeration," he tried to reassure the young boy.

Tom tugged at a dark lock of hair. "I know. I'm just...I'm not _scared_ or anything. Er."

"Just anxious," concluded Harry.

"Yeah..."

"Don't worry. I don't like attention either. Especially from the press. They'll lie and do just about anything to get a story." The wizard shuddered as an image of Rita Skeeter popped into his mind. "But we'll get past them. It will only be for a few moments."

"Ok."

The two stepped out of the viewing chamber, treaded through the hallway, and started their way up the stairs.

Tom's eyes were downcast, focused solely on the ascending steps as he asked, "Harry, did I hurt a lot of people before, you know, you turned me into what I am now?"

Harry frowned. After experiencing Dumbledore's white lies and omission of truths, he had pledged to always be honest when dealing with children. Now, he started to understand the deceased Headmaster's plight. Lying to Tom was out of the question (the boy was exceedingly mature for his age), but how could he protect the youth with brutal honesty?

Sighing, he finally said, "Yes, the grown up you did hurt people. But remember what I told you earlier? That the grown up Tom and the Tom that you are right now aren't the same person."

"Yeah, but I'm..." the dark-eyed boy floundered momentarily. "I'm...I feel guilty. I bet there are a lot of people who hate me."

"Tom, there is no use in feeling guilty for something you did not do. I learned that lesson a while ago. The fact that you _do _feel guilty means that you're a good person. You might have made some bad decisions before, but now you have a second chance."

Tom attempted a brave smile, and Harry fought the urge to embrace the boy. Instead, he pulled open the door leading out into the atrium, holding it out for Tom's convenience.

"Thanks, Harry."

And those were the last words he heard before his ears were assaulted by a mass of hollered questions.

The congregation of paparazzi had caught sight of their hero and the former Dark Lord from across the room. Harry experienced temporary blindness from the simultaneous camera flashes; Tom retained his eyesight for he had turned his face away, shrinking against the older man. The Gryffindor gripped Tom's hand firmly.

When Harry's vision returned, he found himself flanked by two Aurors. A third one stood before him with the intent of assisting their navigation.

"M'name's Charles Middleton," the one in front grunted. "D'you wanna head directly for the Apparition points, or would'ya like to make a statement for the press first?"

Harry chanced a glance at the crowd being held behind a line of magic.

"Mr. Potter! How do you feel about the defeat of the dark?"

"Mr. Potter! Is that truly You-Know-Who?"

"Which spell did you use to cause the de-aging of the Dark Lord?"

"Was the spell on purpose, Mr. Potter?"

"There has been a lot of speculation as to why you decided to take the boy in. Care to clarify your motivations?"

Harry held up a hand. An instant later, everyone was silent, eagerly anticipating his words. He took a deep breath and sorted out his thoughts.

Finally, he spoke in a voice that carried. "Yes, I actually _would _like to clarify my motivations. But let me tell you right now: You either quote me verbatim, or not at all. If you misprint my words, I will not hesitate in denouncing your paper _and _your reputation."

He paused to allow his words to sink in, scanning the throng of reporters with a completely serious expression.

When he saw the nods of agreement he began, "There once was a boy who lived in a cupboard under the stairs. His aunt and uncle called him a freak and treated him like a slave, just because he was _different_. His cousin and the friends of his cousin bullied him, and he had no friends. The boy was not loved."

Confused murmuring broke out. Various guesses were made as to why the Chosen One was speaking of such things, and who the boy in the story was.

"Then, at the age of eleven, he received a letter to Hogwarts—and that was his ticket out. The wizarding world welcomed him with open arms, and for the first time in his life, he felt that he belonged. He felt _cared _for."

The wizards and witches listening on basked in the praise. '_Of course we'd treat him better than the muggles_,' they thought. What they did not know was that Harry Potter was about to burst their bubble.

"The boy was wrong. The wizarding world did _not _care about him. They cared about what he could do for them, and how his actions would benefit them," the bitterness in Harry's voice was palpable. Tom grasped his surrogate brother's hand tighter, with the subconscious intent of comforting him. "The fate of the world rested on his shoulders, and they did not care about how he was _treated _and how he _felt _as long as he saved them. They forgot that he was only a boy."

As the implications of Harry's story became clearer, a silence descended, heavy with unspoken guilt.

"To them, he was an icon. A hero. A _scapegoat_." Scathing words. Angry words. They were all pouring out now. "He was called a liar more times than he could count. He was faulted for more wrongs than could be numbered. They isolated him, and only stopped the cold-shoulder long enough to lay _more _blame on him. And then, and then—"

He paused to get his breathing back under control.

"And then in their darkest hour, they cried out to him. _Save us! _they begged. _Ignore the fact that we're incompetent adults, and you're _only _a child. Sacrifice yourself for strangers who never gave a damn about you_. And you know what? He did."

Some of the more emotional witches were moved to the point of tears.

"But he also got _wiser_, you see. He realized that they would praise him when it was convenient for them, and denounce him when everyone else did. And he realized that they would _never change_. So you know what he decided? He decided that he would do whatever he wanted, and he would not care about other people's opinions." His eyes were twin orbs of emerald fire. "What he wants to do is raise a child—an orphaned half-blood who is different, who is called a freak. _Why would he do that?_ you ask. And he replies, _Because he sees himself in the child_." He stopped briefly, surveying the crowd.

"All children deserve to be loved. All people deserve to have a second chance." Harry took a slow, deep breath and then released it. "The boy who lived in the cupboard under the stairs? That was me. And I would appreciate it if you all would trust me when I say that I know what I'm doing, when I say that I wish to raise Tom Riddle."

And with those last words, he turned on his heel and swept away, taking Tom with him.

He left a room full of stunned individuals, who were suddenly seeing their Savior in a new light.

* * *

"Powerful words, mate."

"Ron!" Harry exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. "You're here!"

The Boy-Who-Lived released his young ward's hand in favor of embracing his best friend. Ronald Weasley laughed and returned the affection.

"You heard me from the lobby?" Harry asked finally, when he registered Ron's words.

"What can I say? You've got one powerful voice. You'd do well as a politician."

The emerald-eyed wizard grimaced, "You're joking, right?"

Ron laughed again. "It's the truth. So are you going to introduce me to this little guy or what?"

"Of course!" Harry smiled proudly down at the former Dark Lord, "Tom, this is my friend Ronald Weasley. Ron, this is Tom Riddle."

The red-haired teen bent down to shake Tom's hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You too. Are you related to Percy?"

"Yes, I am," said Ron, before admonishing Harry with mock-hurt. "I'm your best mate, but you introduced him to Percy before me?"

Harry shrugged helplessly. "He was the one to inform me of the ministry interrogation, and then he accompanied me here."

A grin split Ron's face. "I know, I know. I was just teasing with you. Percy was actually the one who told me to wait here for you." He peered around at their surroundings. "...Say, didn't Kingsley give you an Auror escort or something?"

The Chosen One jolted slightly. "Oh! I wonder where they got to..."

Tom's voice piped up. "They're over there," he said while pointing at the entrance to the Apparition points.

Three men were scrambling through, looking somewhat dazed.

"Late as usual," Harry said with a shake of his head.

"I tell you, mate, it was those powerful word of yours. Probably caused them to forget their duty. The press'll be discussing that speech for _days_."

* * *

Ron was correct.

The press did not leave the topic of his speech alone for days.

And days.

And days.

Until the days eventually turned into weeks, and Harry was reduced to writing a letter to the papers stating that there was more important news to be printed, and that he was getting sick of seeing his face on the front page of newspapers.

It was a good thing that most of his haunts were under the Fidelius. Otherwise, he would never get any semblance of peace. He spent most of his time researching jobs (he no longer wished to join the Aurors) and spending time with friends and family. Andromeda Tonks dropped by quite often, bringing young Teddy with her. Tom took an instant liking to Harry's godson, and Andromeda took an instant liking to Tom.

But not everyone was as fond of the former Dark Lord as Andromeda.

Ginny, for one, refused to stay in the same room as Tom. Thus, Harry's relationship with her degenerated into nothing. He was sad to see her go, until he had realized that there was no way he could have been compatible with a girl who was less mature than his five-year-old was.

The realization had come on the day of Fred Weasley's funeral. That morning, he had engaged in three meaningful conversations.

The first was with Tom:

"_Er, Harry, I don't think it's a good idea for me to go to the funerals. It'd be...disrespectful," Tom had said meekly, whilst scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor._

And Harry had smiled, proud of how mature the youth was.

The second was with Ginny:

"_If you don't give up the boy, I won't let you come to the funeral! Think about it! If it weren't for him, Fred would still be alive!" Ginny had thundered, shaking her fists angrily._

And Harry had been about to give her a piece of his mind before Hermione walked in, interrupting the argument.

It just so happened that the third was with Hermione:

"_The spell you used on Voldemort—_sanus medica_—was meant to heal. Only wizards with the strongest of wills can command it. Essentially, it healed the darkness in Tom. It pieced his soul back together and returned him to a state where he was still healthy, normal, and whole," Hermione had explained slowly, studying her friend's face to see if he understood._

And Harry had thanked divinity that he had chanced upon such a spell.


	3. Years

_Part III: Years_

The broom was small and plain—a child's broom. But from the apprehensive look in Tom's eyes, one would think that he was being confronted by a monster.

"The trick is to be in control of the broom. Don't let the broom be in control you," Harry instructed.

The seven-year-old nodded, but still did not make any motions toward the broom laying limp in the grass.

"Tom?"

The aforementioned boy looked up. "Yes?"

"Are you sure you want to try this now? I mean, we could always do this later, if you'd like..."

With a firm shake of the head, Tom replied, "Of course. I've always wanted to fly."

"If you're sure then," said Harry. "Now, the first step is to put your hand over the broom. Like this—"

The Chosen One demonstrated, placing his right hand above the broom. Tom reached out to mimic the movement with his dominant left hand.

"That's good. Now you have to command it to go up by saying 'up'. Except you have to say it like you really mean it. You have to be convinced that the broom's going to listen to you."

Nodding, Tom said, "_Up!_"

The broom rose with a _Whoosh!_, but did not jump into Tom's hands. Instead, it hovered midair a few inches from the boy's outstretched fingers. Harry's eyes widened at the unexpected result.

"Did I do something wrong?" the youth asked uncertainly.

"No, no. I just didn't think it would float like that."

"...Didn't you mean for me to make it float? That's why I said 'up', right...?"

Understanding graced Harry's face. _So the broom was floating because Tom _wished _for it to float_, thought Harry. _That was a good sign_.

"Ahh...I had expected it to jump up into your hands, but I never specifically told you that. This is certainly different, but different isn't bad."

His surrogate brother bobbed his head. "Now what?"

"Now you do like this—" Harry waved his wand and summoned his own broom, straddling it in a fluid motion.

Tom copied him and the wizard smiled in approval.

Harry continued, "Good. Now, gently push off of the ground with your feet."

Nervously, the dark-eyed boy did so. And he rose—

Up.

Up.

And—

"Harry!"

"It's okay, Tom. Don't panic now."

"No! No, it's not! I wanna get _down!_"

"Okay, okay." Harry reached up with both arms, and found that Tom was _just _out of reach. His stomach sank.

Deciding to change tactics, the former Gryffindor commanded, "All you have to do to get down is lean forwards a little and shift your weight—"

Tom said flatly, "I can't."

"You can, Tom."

"I _can't!"_

"Yes, you can!"

"_I caaan't!_"

"Tom—"

"I wanna get _dooown_."

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the Vanquisher of the Dark, was known for his level-headedness in battle. Even in the most panic-inducing situations, he was able to instruct his forces without batting a lash. Senior Aurors envied his calm. Looking at him now though, they would suspect that he was actually an imposter in disguise as the emerald-eyed wizard.

Because if he could defeat evil with complete composure, _surely _he could remember that a simple incantation was all that was necessary for lowering his young ward.

Apparently not.

"_I wanna get down!_" Tom was floundering midair, thrashing like a fish out of water.

"Erm—"

"Har-_ryyy_!"

"Now," a clear voice cut through their discourse, "what is going on here?"

The duo turned towards the source of the authoritative words—a gray-haired lady, regally beautiful in old age, with her arms crossed sternly.

"I could hear you from the kitchen! You should be thankful that Teddy wasn't woken up by you two!"

"Sorry Aunt 'Dromeda," Harry and Tom said in unison, both looking the perfect picture of penitence.

"You are on my property, so I expect good behavior from the both of you." Andromeda's demands were not to be taken lightly, especially now that they lived with her and Teddy. "Now tell me: What seems to be the problem?"

"Well, er..." Harry said as he motioned to the dark-haired boy. "He's, erm..."

Andromeda looked from the boy in the air, to the young adult on the ground. Tom's green t-shirt was whipping about his body, and his pale skin was even more colorless than usual. Harry had his hands stuck in the pockets of his cargo shorts; his shoulders were hunched with embarrassment.

The elderly lady arched a brow. "I _see_. Harry James Potter, did it not cross your mind that you are a _wizard_? That you can do _spells _with a _wand? _And that you have a _broom to assist you in flying?_"

Harry winced. "...No."

She sighed with exasperation, and pulled out her own wand. A flick of the wrist later, Tom was back on solid earth, his cheeks flushed a bright pink.

"I—" he stuttered as he stood shakily. "I think I'm going to stick with football from now on."

* * *

The Vanquisher of the Dark glared down at his empty plate. From beside him, the ten-year-old former Dark Lord was swallowing his last bits of biscuit along with his mischievous grin.

Slowly, Harry said, "You ate all of my biscuits."

Tom's wide-eyed look of innocence was ruined by the giggle that escaped from his mouth.

"You ate all of my biscuits," the twenty-two-year-old repeated flatly. "You're such a pig."

"Takes one to know one."

"Gah!" Harry exclaimed. "You're not supposed to have snappy comebacks yet! You're only ten!"

"It's 'cos I live with you. You're a bad influence." Tom's large, dark eyes were alight with laughter.

Outwardly, the young man allowed himself to appear annoyed, but the inner, paternal part of his mind was very satisfied. Over the past five years, his ward had grown into a happy, open boy—so completely different from the cold, vicious person he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve. This Tom, _his _Tom, still possessed the same charisma as the _other _Tom, but it was coupled with a witty, pleasant personality that caused the youth to seem irresistibly adorable.

Harry was already starting to worry about how much his young charge would be able to get away with at Hogwarts. With each passing year, Tom became more charmingly devious and Harry became more of a brotherly figure than a fatherly figure. However, the former Gryffindor refused to tolerate cruelty for the sake of cruelty; he would not hesitate to return to being a serious parent if Tom truly misbehaved.

"You're _both _bad influences on Teddy."

In unison, Harry and Tom turned to see Andromeda entering the kitchen.

As the elderly woman ruffled through various cabinets and drawers, she continued, "Tom, you're gluttonous—I honestly don't know how you can eat so much and stay so skinny—and Harry, you're immature."

Her words belied the fond tone in her voice. The two males exchanged grins.

"Oh, but you love us anyway," said Harry.

"Of course I do."

Tom piped up, "But you love me more!"

Their adopted grandmother laughed, shaking her head at their antics.

"Er, Aunt 'Dromeda, what are you looking for?" the young adult asked.

Andromeda paused, and her brows furrowed in thought. "Hmm...I seem to have forgotten... It must be my old age."

At those words, Harry felt an unexplainable tendril of dread slither down his spine. Quickly, he shook off the feeling, calling it ridiculous. _'Andromeda's dementia is caused by old age and nothing else,'_ he told himself firmly. _'There's no need to be worried.'_

* * *

The traffic light turned red and Harry slowed to a stop. In the back seat of his inconspicuous, black BMW, Tom was bouncing with nervous anticipation. Although Harry possessed an Apparition license, both he and Tom found that method of travel to be nauseating. Floo wasn't much better—and that was why the Boy-Who-Lived (now Man-Who-Lived) obtained a driver's license and purchased a car.

"Now, the press will be there—" the older man was saying.

"Yes, yes," Tom cut off impatiently. "I know."

Harry sighed. "Okay, Tom. Tell the truth now—what are you worried about?"

"What makes you think I'm worried?" snapped the eleven-year-old.

"You're only this rude when you're worried or irritated, and I don't see why you'd be irritated about starting at Hogwarts, so..." Harry let his sentence trail off, allowing Tom to fill in the rest.

"Ugh." Tom doubled over, pressing his forehead to his knees. "What if everyone looks at me like...like I'm Voldemort? Imagine if I got sorted into Slytherin! The newspapers would have a field day. I'm _dooomed_."

"The newspapers will have a field day no matter where you end up, Tom," his surrogate brother said quietly. "Everyone's curious about how the former Dark Lord turned out. I tried to keep you out of the spotlight for as long as possible, but now that you're going to school..."

Harry pulled into King's Cross' car park and Tom groaned.

"We're here," said the older of the two.

"I can see that," Tom said touchily, starting to push open the car door.

The emerald-eyed wizard turned in his seat and reached back to catch the young boy's arm. "Wait. Let's talk for a moment."

"What is there to talk about?" Tom groused as he folded his arms.

"You. Your feelings."

The youth said nothing.

Sighing, Harry queried, "Okay, where do you _think _you'll be sorted? Where do you _want _to be sorted?"

A noncommittal '_hm' _was accompanied by a shrug.

"Is it Slytherin? You _know _I wouldn't care if you were sorted there or not."

Tom finally looked up, meeting Harry's eyes squarely. "No."

"Elaborate please."

Sinking lower into his seat cushions, the boy dejectedly gave in. "I don't _want _to be sorted into Slytherin, but that's probably where I'll end up."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because!"

"Because what, Tom? Because the sky is blue? Because the sun rises in the east?"

"No!" Growling, Tom passed a hand through his dark locks. "Because that's where Voldemort went. And he and I are the same."

Harry stared...and then started to laugh.

"Why are you laughing?" Tom asked, annoyed. "What's so funny?"

"You. That's what," the taller of the two replied. "How many times have I said that you and Voldemort are _not _the same? You are not the same! Get that through your head."

"...Whatever."

"It's a bit early for you to start acting like a teenager, Tom." Harry's eyes were sparkling with laughter.

"Well, like everyone says, I've always been mature for my age."

"Teenagers are _not _mature."

The two fell into a silence. As Harry studied him, Tom glared at a random spot on the dashboard.

After a long moment, Harry finally asked, "Is it Ravenclaw? Is that where you want to be?"

The boy's gaze snapped toward his guardian. "How did you know?"

Chuckling softly, the former Gryffindor said, "I've known you since you were five."

Silently, Harry yanked open his door and Tom did so as well. After the smaller Parselmouth pulled out his trunk, which Harry had transfigured into a backpack and spelled for lightness, the two headed for the entrance of King's Cross station. The interior was as busy as ever, and the pair blended easily with the muggles. Neither had dressed up, even though they both knew that reporters would take their pictures.

They did not speak until they were just a short distance from the barrier of 9 3/4.

"Y'know, the Sorting Hat takes your opinions into account," Harry said as he sidled casually toward the bricks.

"Huh?" Tom followed suit.

The Chosen One scanned their surroundings. No one payed them any mind.

"The Sorting Hat. If you tell it that you want to be put into Ravenclaw, it'll listen." As Harry explained this, he leaned into the wall and disappeared.

Tom, who had been aware of the magic of 9 3/4's barrier, did not even bat an eyelash. Instead, he did the same, and reappeared on the other side moments later.

"It does?" The soon-to-be Hogwarts student sounded none too convinced.

"Well, I begged it not to put me into Slytherin. So it put me into Gryffindor instead."

"Wait...," The meaning of Harry's words registered with Tom, and he stopped walking in favor of staring at his companion incredulously. "You? Slytherin? How come you never told me about this?"

"You never asked."

Harry tugged at the strap on Tom's backpack and, realizing what the wizard wanted, Tom allowed the bag to slip off of his shoulders. The man then pulled out his wand and proceeded to transform the backpack back into a trunk.

"There you go, Tom."

"Thanks, Harry."

_Pop! Flash!_

Disoriented, the two looked looked around for the origins of the bright light. Catching sight of a horde of paparazzi struggling toward them, they groaned simultaneously. So many questions were shouted at the same time that they could not distinguish who was saying what.

"That's your cue to get on the train, Tom," Harry said, affectionately patting the young boy's shoulder.

Tom gazed up at him, and seemed to struggle with his words for a moment. "I—I'm gonna miss you. Tell Aunt 'Dromeda and Teddy that I'll miss them too."

The dark-haired man beamed. "All right. Make sure you write often."

Quickly, Tom clambered onto Hogwart's Express. Harry turned away, trying to keep himself from thinking sappy thoughts like _'My little boy's growing up so fast.'_

Too late.

* * *

They were staring, and Tom didn't like it. Even though the sorting, along with Headmistress McGonagall's speech, had concluded several minutes ago, incredulous looks were still being shot his way.

No one, absolutely _no one_, had expected Tom Riddle—_Voldemort!_—to be sorted into any house other than Slytherin. Tom was the only one who had anticipated the Sorting Hat's decision—Ravenclaw. His pleasure was overridden by the desire for everyone to _stop staring!_

"Hi!"

The greeting caught the former Dark Lord's attention. Much like Tom, the boy who had spoken could have been classified as tall for his age. But, truthfully, he was more burly than tall. He had wavy, brown hair and light, blue eyes.

"Hi," Tom responded cautiously.

"I'm Matthew Wood. But most people call me Matt...or sometimes Hey You."

The blue-eyed boy didn't sound hostile, and his words caused Tom to smile.

"I'm Tom Riddle. But most people call me the former Dark Lord."

Matt laughed. "Well, my Lordship, what do you think of Quidditch?"

Involuntarily, Tom shuddered. "Football, my friend, _football _is the way to go."

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

* * *

"_Tommy!"_

Only one person was allowed to call him by that nickname (and get away with it too): Teddy Lupin. Tom had approximately two seconds to react before the seven-year-old tackled him. Bright, purple hair testified to how ecstatic the younger boy was.

"Nice to see you too, Teddy." The second year was laughing as he wrapped his arms around the Metamorphagus.

"Did you have fun at school? Did you learn a lot of new spells? Did you get over your fear of brooms? Did you miss me?"

Chortling, Tom said, "Yes, yes, no, and yes—I missed you lots."

"Good," Teddy grinned. "I missed you too. Primary school is fun, and we learn a lot too. But I'm always around muggles—" the boy wrinkled his nose, "not that I have anything against them, but Harry and 'Dromeda says I have to keep magic a secret."

"And do you?"

"Of course!" The seven-year-old looked slightly affronted. "I'm a good boy."

Fondly, the Hogwarts student shook his head. He then glanced up and caught sight of Harry, beaming in the background.

"What, no greeting for me?" the man mock pouted.

On Platform 9 3/4, they were given a wide berth. Most of the wizarding world was still uncertain of how to react to the sight of a former Dark Lord showing affection to his 'little brother', whilst the Great Harry Potter looked on with an indulgent smile.

"'Lo Harry!" Tom greeted.

Before Harry could respond, a figure exited the red steam engine and called out:

"Tom, you left your scarf."

"Oh, thanks Matt." Tom turned to his friend and took the offered item.

"How are you doing, Matt?" Harry inquired with a smile.

During the summer after first year, Tom's best friend had visited often. Thus Matt and Harry had become acquainted.

The brunet said politely, "Great, Mr. Potter. How are you?"

"I'm doing fine, thank you."

At that moment, a deep voice sounded. "Matt?"

The group turned to see the owner of the Scottish brogue.

"Oliver!" Harry exclaimed, pleasantly surprised by the appearance of his former Quidditch captain. "Long time no see."

For a second, the Scot seemed taken aback before a smile spread over his face. "Yes, it _has _been a long time. It seems that my nephew and your...er—"

Oliver hesitated, unsure of how to describe the relationship between Tom and Harry.

Nodding, Harry continued for him, "Tom and Matt seem to be good friends...Well, when they aren't arguing over the merits of football versus Quidditch."

The older man laughed. "Indeed. Of course, you would know whose side _I'm_ on in such an argument."

"Still loving Quidditch, huh? I haven't played in a while..."

"Then we should get the team back together sometime to play a few friendly games," Oliver suggested half-jokingly.

"That sounds like fun." Harry glanced down at his watch. "Well, we've got to get going. Have a nice holiday, Oliver."

"You too."

Matt punched Tom's arm lightly as he walked passed. "Happy Christmas, Lordship. See you when we get back."

"See you."

Harry aimed a curious look in his surrogate brother's direction. "Lordship?"

"Oh." Tom flushed a little. "It's kind of a joke. Y'know—since I used to be the 'Dark Lord'."

The two Parselmouths started to walk toward the exit, with Teddy skipping up ahead of them.

"Well, just hope that the Daily Prophet doesn't get wind of that nickname. Imagine what they would say."

"Ha, I can see the headline now: Former Dark Lord Attempts to Regain Forces."

* * *

"There's something we need to talk about."

Tom stopped clearing away the dishes. Subconsciously, he had been expecting something like this. After they had arrived at home, Harry's mood had steadily darkened. It seemed that he was _trying _to appear cheerful but, when he thought no one was looking, a serious expression would steal across his face.

"Yeah?" said Tom.

"Why don't you take a seat," Harry stalled.

The boy did so, choosing a seat at the dinner table opposite from his guardian. He took a moment to study Harry: the man was now twenty-four and he looked _tired_. The skin beneath his eyes appeared bruised and darker than normal, while the skin on the rest of his body appeared paler than normal.

"I know Christmas time is supposed to be full of cheer, but I have some bad news."

Tom swallowed. "Yes?"

"Have you...Have you noticed anything _off_ about Aunt 'Dromeda?" Harry asked gently.

Frowning down at the green, checkered tablecloth, Tom went over his memories of Andromeda. He could still recall the first time he met her. It had been seven years ago, and she had brought over biscuits. He remembered thinking that she was so very nice and lively. Throughout the years that he'd known her, she had always been able to keep up with him. But he wasn't blind—he could see her health gradually deteriorating. Bit by bit, her wide palette of expressions had been reduced to either a feeble smile or a confused frown.

She seemed to forget a lot.

"Is she sick?"

Harry's eyes widened before a wry smile graced his face. "I always forget how perceptive you are. Yes, Aunt 'Dromeda is _sick_. She...," his voice cracked a little, "I took her to St. Mungos, but they couldn't figure out what was wrong. We went to see several specialists, before a Healer recommended that we try a muggle doctor."

"When—when was this?" Tom could feel the invisible fingers of dread wrapping around his throat, causing his words to sound choked.

"September, right after you started your second year."

"So...did you go to the muggle doctors?"

Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Yes. Yes, she was diagnosed a few weeks ago. Tom, you've heard of Alzheimer's, right?"

"Er, that's the muggle disease where a person steadily loses their memory...?" The boy _really _did not like the direction this conversation was heading in.

"That's right. But it isn't a condition that _just _affects muggles. It's a condition that affects humans, and wizards and witches are humans too."

"You're saying...you're saying that Aunt 'Dromeda has Alzheimer's?"

Solemnly, Harry nodded. "I wish it wasn't so..."

When Tom heard the confirmation, an odd thing happened. Outrage coursed through his veins and his thoughts hazed, yet he felt as if his convictions had never been so _clear_. There was no way Andromeda could have been afflicted by this ailment—no way, _no way_.

Distantly, he heard a breathy, "_No," _and only afterwards did he realize that it was _he _who had spoken the denial.

"Tom—"

"_No!_ We have magic, Harry! We're _wizards! _Isn't there some way to save her?" His voice sounded borderline hysterical, even to himself.

"There are potions that can slow the degeneration of her nerves, and other spells that can temporarily restore her memory. But these methods only postpone the inevitable. Over time, they'll become less and less effective. Magic has its limitations." When Harry saw that Tom wasn't convinced, he continued, "Think about it, Tom. Even with magic, can males get pregnant? Can we make the Earth rotate the other way?"

Tom said nothing. His mind felt numb.

"Tom?"

"Shut up."

Harry pursed his lips, and Tom feared that the former Gryffindor was about to get angry with him. But the older man didn't. Instead, he stood up, walked to Tom's side of the table, and wrapped his arm around the boy.

Silence reigned for a long moment, before the stiffness left the youth's body. Slowly, he allowed his head to drop onto Harry's shoulder.

"I don't want her to die, Harry." His voice sounded pathetically small, but did that really matter?

"I know. Me neither."

Tom stumbled over his next words, "Wh—what's her prognosis?"

"Five years," the other half-blood whispered. "She might still be around for your graduation."

"I h—hope so." The words were muffled, because he had buried his head into the crook of Harry's neck, taking what meager comfort he could gain from physical contact.

"Me too."

They stayed like that, embracing tightly. Tom wasn't sure how much time had passed, and he couldn't bring himself to care.

Finally, he queried, "Does Teddy know?"

"Not yet."

Another long pause ensued. Untended, the flames in the fireplace grew weaker and weaker until they sputtered and died completely. Bars of cold moonlight slanted in from the window and—high in the heavens—myriad stars winked, as unaffected as always by life and death, joy and grief.

The world still turned.

"Thanks for telling me," Tom murmured.

"You're welcome."

* * *

The disheartening news cast the rest of the holidays into a dour light. Teddy was blissfully unaware of the situation though, and continued to be his normal, cheerful self. And on the 31st of December, Tom was rudely awoken by the little, bouncing ball of energy.

"Happy birthday, Tom!" the little boy lilted as he hopped up and down on Tom's bed. "Harry wants to see you in the kitchen!"

"Erm." The older boy tried to blink the sleep from his eyes. "Okay."

He forced himself out of bed and padded down the stairs. Teddy had wandered off somewhere along the way, so he ended up in the kitchen alone.

Harry was hunched over the Daily Prophet, and Tom found that to be very odd. The Savior of the Wizarding World often denounced the press, and it was extremely rare for him to pick up a copy of the news.

Almost as if he could read Tom's mind, Harry relayed, "Hermione fire-called me this morning. Told me to get myself a copy of the Prophet."

Silently, the man passed the paper to the boy.

Tom read over the headline:

_Former Dark Lord Attempts to Regain Forces?_

Beneath, there was a picture of him and his group of friends.

"..."

"Let me guess," said Harry. "You don't know whether you should feel horrified or amused."

"Pretty much. Please tell me this is a joke."

"I could, but then I would be lying. Anyway, take a look at the article while I scramble some eggs," the Chosen One said.

As Tom read over the page, both his horror and amusement increased. It started with speculation about _why _Harry had taken him in:

_Harry James Potter, Order of Merlin, First Class, is the sole known survivor of the Killing Curse. During his Hogwarts years, his heroic escapades were highly publicized..._Tom skipped over the next portion, having heard many firsthand accounts of Harry's adventures at Hogwarts..._He has authored many bestselling books on such topics as practical defense and duelling techniques, and is widely hailed as the greatest Light wizard of our time. So now we ask 'why'? Why was he so willing to adopt the Dark wizard, formerly known as Voldemort, after the events of the Final Battle seven years ago? Could it be possible that the Dark Lord had charmed him with spells? Perhaps Harry Potter is now merely a puppet, and Tom Riddle is just biding his time—waiting for the right moment to return._

And it was followed by anonymous students discussing how charming and intelligent he was:

"_He's in Ravenclaw, and he's the smartest student in our year. He gets things really quickly, almost like he's learned the information before._"

"_He has a huge group of friends, but they seem more...more like admirers, I guess. He seems to keep his 'inner circle' small—only a few students _really _know who he is_."

One particular quote jumped out at him:

"_I've heard some people calling him 'Lordship'._"

It caused a great deal of laughter on his part.

When he finally finished, he made a decision: It was time for him to learn about Voldemort—not the _name _or the two-dimensional character mentioned in textbooks and newspapers, but the _person _who had terrorized a whole country and whose infamy was immortalized. It was time for him to confront his past.

He cleared his throat, and outlined the best way to approach his adopted father. "Harry? It's my birthday today."

The Chosen One turned to him with an odd look, clearly surprised that Tom had not brought up the article. "I haven't forgotten, Tom."

"Yes, well, in honor of me becoming a teenager, I thought you could show me your memories of Voldemort and the war."

"Okay."

Tom opened his mouth to argue, before realizing that Harry had agreed. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Wait, okay? Just like that? No arguing?"

Amused, Harry reaffirmed, "No arguing. You've always been mature for your age, and I figured that if you think you're ready, then you probably are. But may I ask why you're suddenly asking this?"

"It's hardly sudden. I've been curious for a while now. When I read things like this," Tom gesticulated at the newspaper, "it makes me wonder even more. I want to _know, _Harry. I want to know about my past."

"All right. I'll get out my Pensieve after breakfast." Harry placed a plate of eggs and toast before Tom. "Some of the things that you'll see...well just don't eat too much if you think there's a chance you'll throw up."

His words were not reassuring.

* * *

It was horrific.

Gruesome.

Terrible.

Tom did not think there were enough adjectives in the English language to describe how awful the war was. In Harry's memories, he encountered victim after victim—starved, raped, bloodied, tortured. He was confronted by the dark nature of humans, the monster that resided within all men's hearts, and, worst of all, he saw just how much potential he possessed for achieving evil.

Some of the things he saw made him want to find a deep, dark hole and crawl in it. And wait to die.

"_Tom, there is no use in feeling guilty for something you did not do. I learned that lesson a while ago. The fact that you do feel guilty means that you're a good person. You might have made some bad decisions before, but now you have a second chance._"

Harry had spoken those words so, so long ago. Back then, the man had been trying to ease his confusion and shame.

Harry was good. Harry was _great_. Tom now understood why the Daily Prophet was so suspicious: How could the hero forgive him so easily? He was Voldemort. He was the one who had caused the death of James and Lily Potter, Sirius Black, Dumbledore, and countless innocents... He had brought heartache and he had brought pain.

"_How many times have I said that you and Voldemort are _not _the same? You are not the same! Get that through your head._"

Those words floated to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

"_All children deserve to be loved. All people deserve to have a second chance."_

A hollow, pained sound escaped from his throat. It was a parody of laughter. The awful sound was still welling from his chest when he emerged out the Pensieve and back into the kitchen. Harry's features were drawn with worry—as if he feared that Tom had finally cracked.

Tentatively, the man asked, "Are you all right?"

Tom ignored the true questioned. "It's an odd experience, y'know? Following someone into a Pensieve while you're in a Pensieve. Kind of like watching someone on TV watching TV."

Harry bit his lip. "You're referring to the memories that Dumbledore showed me?"

"Yes."

"Wh—what did you think of them?" Hesitation colored the former Gryffindor's voice.

The boy dropped his gaze. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You aren't contemplating suicide or anything, right?"

The younger of the two let out a short, humorless laugh. "Tact—have you never been introduced to that concept?" Even Tom winced at how bitter he sounded. "Look, I might be crazy, but I'm not suicidal."

The corners of Harry's lips quirked into a small smile. "I would hope not."

Was Tom all right? No.

Would Tom let this destroy him? No. It wasn't pleasant watching what he had done—seeing the people he had hurt, murdered, _broken_—but with time, he would recover. If not for himself, for the people he cared about: Harry, Teddy, Andromeda... Teenage angst and self-pity weren't things they should have to put up with. They deserved better than that, he decided.

* * *

Tom had managed to avoid Howlers up until fourth year.

"YOU BLEW UP A TOILET."

Harry's unnaturally calm voice boomed through the Great Hall, causing heads to turn and people to stare. Mortified, the Ravenclaw attempted to melt into his bench.

Was there even such a thing as a _calm_ _Howler_? Was that not an oxymoron?

It seemed that Harry's motto in life was '_Break the rules; do the unexpected_'.

"GEORGE TOLD YOU TO BLOW UP A TOILET. _GEORGE. _THE SAME _GEORGE WEASLEY _WHO BROKE THE RECORD FOR ACHIEVING THE MOST NUMBER OF DETENTIONS IN ONE YEAR. THAT FACT ALONE SHOULD'VE WARNED YOU TO IGNORE HIS SUGGESTIONS. DO I REALLY NEED TO PAINT A SIGN ON HIS FOREHEAD THAT SAYS: DON'T LISTEN TO WHAT THIS GUY TELLS YOU. IT WILL GET YOU IN TROUBLE?"

Giggles had erupted amongst Hogwart's pupils. Some of the more devoted fangirls had even swooned because: "_Ohmigawd! That's Harry Potter's voice! I can die happily now!_"

"SO HOW SHOULD I PUNISH YOU FOR DOING SOMETHING SO RIDICULOUS? MAYBE I SHOULD DO SOMETHING EQUALLY RIDICULOUS—LIKE GIVING YOU _THE TALK_. RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW."

Tom's eyes widened in pure, unadulterated horror. At the staff table, several of the teachers who had once known Harry Potter (Professor Longbottom, Headmistress McGonagall...) were trying to smother their laughter.

"THAT'S RIGHT, TOMMY BOY. _THE TALK_."

Snickering, Matt questioned, "He's not being serious, is he? I mean, The _Talk_. Right in the middle of breakfast? That's _cruel_."

"SO, WHEN A MAN AND WOMAN LOVE EACH OTHER VEEERY MUCH—"

Tom swore. Very loudly. With language that he hadn't even been aware of knowing. Still laughing, Matt clapped his hands over the ears of the nearest first year to 'protect the little kid's innocence'.

"He is serious! Someone kill me please!" Thinking quickly, Tom snatched up the Howler and took off at a run, racing down the Great Hall and out through the doors.

"—THEY DO SOMETHING VEEERY SPECIAL TOGETHER..."

* * *

"I don't like her." Tom kicked the football a bit harder than he normally would, but Harry was still able to stop it with his feet.

They were in a park. A rather ordinary park with grass and trees and playing children. Occasionally, Harry would catch sight of a teenage girl casting appreciative glances at Tom, and be reminded that his adopted son was at the age for relationships. And here he was—complaining about _Harry's_ relationship with a girl. Shouldn't he be too self-centered and teenager-like to notice other people?

"Now, _Tom_—" he tried to say reasonably, propelling the ball across the grass and back to the fifteen-year-old.

"Don't _Tom _me. She's after you because of your fame and you know it."

"Nonsense! Thalia is a perfectly nice girl. And I'm twenty-seven now. It's about time I settled down..."

"You know, people used to say that Madame Zabini was a perfectly nice lady too," Tom said snidely. "If you overlooked the fact that she killed all her husbands."

"Are you insinuating that Thalia is going to try and kill me?" Harry asked, slightly outraged.

"There are other ways to ruin a person's life besides ending it."

"What are you? Jealous? Worried?"

"Jealous?" scoffed Tom. "I couldn't possibly be jealous of a gold-digger. Or, in this case, a fame-digger. But I _am _worried."

"Don't be. I'm fine."

The teenager snorted. "You willing to be on that?"

Indignant, Harry said, "I would win."

Tom arched one eyebrow. "All right. Loser has to pay the winner twenty gold galleons."

* * *

Exactly one week later, Harry James Potter found himself handing over twenty galleons to his ward.

"I told you so," Tom said smugly.

* * *

"You're so _zen _about this, it's freaking me out," Matt said as he flipped idly through his Arithmancy textbook.

"Zen?" Tom snorted. "_I'm_ not freaking you out. The _O.W.L's_ are freaking you out."

"Now you're psychic on top of everything else! What else are you about to reveal to me? That you were once a Dark Lord in a past life?"

The other Ravenclaw did not deign to respond.

Matt gasped dramatically, exaggerating shock, "_No!_ Don't tell me you actually _were _a Dark Lord in a past life!" Leaning forward, the boy said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper, "Can I be in your inner circle?"

This was one of the many situations in which Tom experienced the impulse to smack his best friend, but decorum would not allow it. '_Well, decorum can go jump off a cliff,' _he thought. He should be allowed to indulge himself once in a while.

Before Matt could register what he was doing, he reached over and shoved him off the couch.

"Ow!" The boy complained. "This is an abusive relationship! That's what this is! And you're a prefect—you're supposed to be—"

"Sugar and spice and everything nice?" Tom looked amused.

Indignantly, the brunet said, "A good example."

"Yeah, but who's watching?"

Glancing around, Matt retorted, "Your fanclub is."

Tom's head whipped around, and he caught sight of a gaggle of first year girls sitting on the other side of the Ravenclaw common room. When they noticed his gaze, they quickly looked away, giggling and tittering amongst themselves.

Weakly, he said, "It's not _really _a fanclub. It's just a couple of first years."

"Yes, a couple of first years. And a few second years. And a bunch of third years. And a whole load of—"

"You're exaggerating," Tom protested half-heartedly.

His friend raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Whatever you say, Lordship. _Whatever _you say."

* * *

Hopping on Tom's bed seemed to be a favorite pastime of Teddy.

"Oh, I'm so excited!" sang the eleven-year-old. "I'm going to Hogwarts! Hoggy, warty Hogwarts!"

Personally, Tom thought that those particular adjectives made the school of magic seem less appealing. He did not voice his thoughts aloud, though.

Teddy continued in the same manner as he had been for the past hour. "I can't wait! _I can't wait!_ D'you know how excited I am, Tommy?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Really, _really _excited!"

Fighting the urge to massage his temples, the soon-to-be sixth year said wearily, "Yes, I know. But September 1st won't arrive any sooner if you don't go get some sleep."

"Oh, _fine_," acquiesced Teddy.

Affectionately, Tom ruffled the boy's shockingly violet hair and showed him out of his room. But instead of retiring to bed, he made his way down the hall and into Harry's office.

Harry preferred laptops to charmed quills. Whenever he had the urge to write (or whenever his publisher urged him to write), he would retreat to his room for hours on end, typing away at his latest project.

And that was how Tom found him on that humid evening before September 1st—tapping away at the keyboard of his computer. With his sleeves rolled up, he looked the perfect picture of concentration. For a moment, Tom felt bad about disturbing him. He briefly considered turning around and walking out of his surrogate brother's office, but then Harry noticed him and spoke:

"Hey, Tom. Did you need something?"

"Oh...Er..."

The man raised an eyebrow as if to say, _'Well, get on with it.'_

Releasing a deep breath, Tom dragged a chair to Harry's desk and flopped into it. "How did you know? That you wanted to be a writer, I mean?"

"Well." Harry blinked. "I didn't. When I was a fifth year, I thought I wanted to be an Auror."

"But you aren't an Auror."

"That's right. I grew..._disenchanted_, I suppose. I've had enough of fighting to last me a lifetime..." Harry shot an inquisitive frown in Tom's direction. "But may I ask what the point of this interrogation is?"

Tom shrugged. "I was talking with Teddy earlier. He wants to be a Quidditch player, did you know? He has his whole life planned out, and he's only eleven. And then there's me. I have no idea what I want to do in the future."

The teenager squirmed as his adopted father studied him. "I don't think that's true."

"Are you saying that I'm lying?" scowled Tom.

"No, that's not what I mean. I think that you _do_ have an idea—you just don't wish to pursue it for some reason or another."

"Well...I guess a career as a Healer would be okay," the Ravenclaw allowed.

"Okay?" asked Harry. "_Only_ okay?"

Toying with the hem of his shirt, Tom said slowly, "I...kind of want to teach, but I know _that_ won't be happening—considering my past."

At first, Harry looked surprised, but then his features rearranged themselves into a reassuring grin. "If there's a will, there's a way, Tom. If you put your mind to it, you can achieve anything."

"Psh. Go get yourself some _original_ material."

Contrary to his negative words, Tom was smiling.

"So will you try?" Harry looked at him expectantly.

"I'll try," the boy confirmed.

* * *

Parents. Teachers. Students. Press. They were all resided within Hogwart's Great Hall, and they were all waiting for him, the Head Boy, to speak. The Head Girl, Sasha Ivanov, had already delivered the standard graduation speech about the good times they've shared, the gratitude they felt toward their parents and teachers, and the bright future that lay ahead of them. It was now time for Tom to conclude the ceremony.

Harry, Andromeda, and Teddy sat in the back row, feebly attempting to hide from reporters. The young Metamorphagus was excitement personified, bouncing with eager anticipation. His two guardian figures were expressing their encouragement through their smiles.

_'You'll do fine,'_ they seemed to say.

Tom cleared his throat. "I am sure that my past is not lost on anyone—" he waved his wand in the air, causing _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ to appear, and then rearrange itself into _I am Lord Voldemort_, "—but the '_I am'_ portion needs to be removed, since it would make a statement that is most definitely not true."

Again, he flourished his wand. The words in midair died in a shower of sparks. Scanning his audience, he was aware that they were all giving him their undivided attention. _'Of course they would be interested,'_ he thought wryly. _'This is the first time I've spoken about my past in public.'_

"Now, Voldemort—" a ripple of unease traveled through the crowd and many shifted and stirred, "—the name still gives people the chills, huh? It brings back unwanted memories of pointless bloodshed and needless violence. Many people in this very room are victims, or know victims, who had suffered in the last war. Even a decade later, the scars and pain have yet to fade completely."

For a brief moment, he felt his throat constrict. "Yes, the last war was bad. But without it, we wouldn't have learned some very valuable lessons. It taught us that we should all try to be more understanding, open-minded, caring, and vigilant. It taught us that ignoring a problem doesn't make it disappear, that discrimination leads to hatred, and that bravery goes a long way. Now, just because I said that, all of you Gryffindorks—" Tom released an exaggerated, hacking cough, "sorry, _Gryffindors_ better not think that you're better than the rest of us."

There was laughter and grins all around.

Tom indulged in a smile before continuing, "All of these lessons can be carried onto the battlefield that is called _life_. Of course, they aren't the only teachings that we'll need. Our education at Hogwarts may be complete, but there is still much more for us to discover in the 'real world'." The Head Boy paused and took in the sight of the gathering. "I wish you all the best of luck."

Applause and cheers erupted.

* * *

At the reception afterwards, Tom caught sight of a figure struggling his way through the crowd of people who had come to congratulate him.

It was Harry.

Their eyes locked, and there was a moment of silence.

In a voice saturated with pride and happiness and intense, indescribable sentiments, the man spoke, "Adopting you was one of the best decisions I've ever made. I cannot express how proud I am of you."

The former Dark Lord felt an emotion whelm his heart—a warm, consuming sensation. The emotion may have been completely foreign to Voldemort, but it was very familiar to Tom.

The emotion was love.

* * *

_End_

* * *

The fantabulous _imadoodlenoodle_ beta'd and brit-picked. Many thanks to her and the reviewers.

Cheers!


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